


Playing Nicely With Others

by Devereauxs_Disease



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Galahad finds this hot, Galahad works at Vanora's bar, Hannibal Extended Universe, He manages to piss off the childcare minder, M/M, Modern AU, Please join me in welcoming Glitter!Tristan to fics, That's right I'm calling him Glitter!Tristan, Tristan is great with kids, Who is Tristan, With a side of shameless smut, he agrees to pick up her little ones from nursery school, shameless fluff, you can't stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-13 03:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devereauxs_Disease/pseuds/Devereauxs_Disease
Summary: When Galahad agrees to pick up Vanora and Bors' little ones from the nursery, he accidentally insults one of the workers. This is as problem because, well, the guy is pretty hot. Can Galahad win over a grumpy, glitter-covered Tristan on his own? Or will he have to enlist some help from the kids?This is a birthday fic gone haywire. Basically it's a Hallmark movie, people - you've been warned.





	1. Pulling Pigtails

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victorine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/gifts).



> So...Vic's birthday was...months ago (I know because it's the same day as mine). She asked for one simple thing: Tristhad babysitting Bors and Vanora's kids. My brain, however, had other ideas and suddenly I now have this massively fluffy modern AU that barely covers what she wants. So...uh...Happy Birthday, Vic? I tried. 
> 
> As always Gwilbers read all my errors so you don't have to. And this time she pulled double duty helping me British-up my English because let's face it, I write like a colonial. Thank you Gwilbers, you are the best!

          Galahad drew his coat a little tighter around his body as he hurried toward Baddon Hill Nursery. It didn’t do much, the frigid wind wound round his legs and made him shiver. If he had known Vanora would send him on brat collecting duties he would have worn jeans today instead of his utilikilt.

          He’d been working at The Round Table for nearly two years while he chipped away at his degree in architecture. Every night he poured drinks and refilled pretzel bowls, trying to ignore the blaring dad rock Bors insisted _set the mood of the whole place_. It really wasn’t a bad gig, Vanora let him slip into the back on slow nights to study, the kids brought him snacks and drawings to encourage him, and Bors took all the shifts around Galahad’s exams. Also, Vanora always saved him some stew and shortbread to take home after a dinner shift _to put some meat on those bones_. Galahad couldn’t argue with good food and a reduced grocery bill.

          When they told him they were buying the place next door to expand, Galahad had been thrilled. Bors had asked him to draw up the plans and help choose a builder. It wasn’t a grand building in the London skyline, but it was a start — he was rather proud of the booth configurations and vaulted entryway. Still, it meant Bors spent most of the day dealing with liquor orders and restocking while Vanora yelled at their contractor, who seemed perpetually delayed.

          He usually didn’t mind helping out — the older kids had the bus to get them home, only Six and Seven needed to be fetched from the nursery down the street — but on days like today, he dearly wished he could just let the little darlings call a taxi. Another blast of frigid air swept up his thighs and Galahad once again cursed Vanora, the kids, and her stupid sod of a husband for sending him on this freezing death march.

          A bracing blast of warm air enveloped him as he wrenched open the doors to the Baddon Hill Nursery. He fell in line with a huddled mass of parents and caregivers, all watching through the centre’s large windows as their children were corralled and herded to the door.

          One of the women, Galahad thought her name was Susan, smiled and waved him over to her spot at the window. “Vanora busy today?”

          “Renovations.”

          “Ah, I remember when we did the bathroom, took us AGES.”

          Galahad hummed, scanning the horde of children for Six and Seven. He found Six almost immediately, standing on top a crafting table and shouting instructions to the little ones looking up at her. Just as loud as her father, that one, and possibly as bossy. Galahad smiled and waved when she spotted him, laughing when Six let out what must have been a war cry as she charged towards him.

          “GAL!” Six flung herself onto his legs. She let out a happy yelp when Galahad swung her up, tossing her in the air.

          “How’s my best girl?”

          “I got three smiley faces today and I learned how to throw cards!”

          “Three smiley faces? You must have been very good.”

          “I didn’t bite anyone!”

          “Well done, Sixy!” Galahad gave her a cuddle. Vanora had been going mad trying to curb her daughter’s more aggressive tendencies. Six had appointed herself guardian of the little ones in the centre and seemed dead set on drawing blood from whomever opposed her. It didn’t help that her father nearly burst with pride as he read every naughty slip aloud to whomever would listen. “Where’s your brother?”

          Seven was, in Galahad’s estimation, probably switched at the hospital when Vanora gave birth. While most of their offspring ate like locusts, trundled like a herd of water buffalo, and made enough noise at any given moment to crack the ear drums of a normal person — Seven was a quiet, timid little thing. He watched the world with big eyes from behind the leg of whatever trusted adult was near. He barely spoke, and usually only then to his sister or mother, and rarely went anywhere without clutching onto a hawk stuffie that had been discarded by Three when he decided he was too old for such things. It was odd to see Six alone, she usually didn’t trust the welfare of her brother to anyone.

          “He’s with Tristan, flying.” Galahad nodded, as if that made sense, scanning the crowd again.

          When he finally saw Seven, Galahad frowned. The boy was wrapped around a tall man in combat trousers and a torn t-shirt that must have been the victim of a children’s painting project. Seven was pulling at the man’s long hair, which hung in dirty looking hanks, messy plaits further tangling the bramble. The man flipped his hair back to look down at Seven, and Galahad spotted a neatly trimmed beard and odd facial tattoos on each high cheek.

          He looked like a wild beast, unkempt and far too dangerous to allow near little ones.

          “Dear gods, does he work here?” Galahad asked maybe-Susan.

          “OH, you’ve never seen Tristan before, eh?”

          “Are you even sure he’s a man, he looks like a wild dog!” The man in question looked up, sharp eyes finding Galahad through the window. There was no way he had heard, not over the noises of the children, not through Plexiglas, and yet... Tristan’s eyes hardened, his lip curling into a snarl. For a moment, Galahad felt a tinge of guilt. He shook his head. “I hope they flea dipped him before they let him near the children.”

          “I would volunteer to give him a good dip, I don’t mind telling you. I’d spread for him like jam on toa- HELLO DARLING!” maybe-Susan dipped down to greet her little girl. She waved at Galahad as she led her daughter out the door.

          Galahad nodded but turned back to Tristan, who was crouched in front of Seven, talking very seriously with him. After a moment, Tristan stood, cast one final glare at Galahad before he left. Seven walked over to Gal, pretending to fly his hawk stuffie the whole way.

          “Hello handsome! How was your day?” Galahad crouched to speak to Seven, who got nervous when adults leaned over him.

          “Tis-tan has all his shots,” Seven said with a nod. “He wants you to know he’s not a rabbit.”

          “A rabbit?” Galahad cocked his head. _What the hell had that grizzled man been telling Seven?_ Then it struck him. “Rabid?”

          “Yes,” Seven confirmed. “He said to say he isn’t a rabbit.”

          Galahad closed his eyes and let the flush run over his face. Well, at least he’d mucked this up so badly there was no way Vanora would ask him to do it again.

* * *

 

          Apparently, even calling one of the child minders a rabid dog was not enough of a cock-up to excuse him from Brat Pickup. Vanora had begged him the next day, two paint swatches and three leather samples clutched in her hands. With a sigh, Galahad left — perhaps if he arrived early, he could grab Six and Seven and leave without being spotted by the hairy beast that most certainly didn’t like him.

          Galahad rushed into the building only to hear a monstrous roar. Frowning, he poked his head around to the window and saw Tristan, hair undone and rather clean looking, snarling at the children. The man drew his hands into the air like great claws and roared again, taking exaggerated stomps at the little ones, who screamed as they ran around.

          Suddenly, Six appeared in the midst of the swarm of children, yelling “GET HIM!”

          The kids overran Tristan in what must have been seconds. Even Seven was running at the big man, leaping upon his legs. Galahad felt himself grin as Tristan pretended to struggle, carefully taking steps with children clinging to his legs and catching the few little ones on his back that didn’t have a good enough hold on him. With one final roar, Tristan scooped the kids away from his back and fell dramatically into a pile of beanbag chairs. 

          Children were upon him before he could properly enact his death. The boys crawling on his sprawled legs and pulling at his arms. The girls, Galahad noticed, flocked to Tristan’s head, where his hair was divided into hard-won territories. Each girl’s sticky glitter-covered hands began to try to plait his hair — some with middling success, other just managing to create sparkly knots.

          Tristan winced slightly with each pull to his head, the girls trying to get a better angle and fasten plastic pink clips to their work. When they were done, Galahad understood the dirty mess of hair Tristan had at the end of each day — honestly, it was a bit of a mystery how he had avoided accruing a bald spot. Through it all Tristan kept gently wrestling with the boys and laughing loud when they would tumble on top of him. That stern mouth opened wide, revealing crooked fangs and soft looking lips.

          Galahad felt his stomach twist as he watched the group. He thought about washing the glitter from Tristan’s hair, working his fingers deep into his scalp and maybe nipping at the grey streaks in his beard as they soaked in a bath on a Sunday evening. The man in question piked forward when one of the boys grabbed the front of his shirt, revealing a rather thick patch of chest hair. Galahad licked his lips, amending his little bathroom fantasy.  

          Blinking, Galahad shook the image from his head.

_Did he…Was Tristan handsome?_

          Galahad watched as Tristan snatched Seven from the group of boys and swung him through the air, both the boy and the man laughing loud. Galahad felt a fluttering his chest and a definite tug of something vastly inappropriate happening beneath his kilt.

          “Oh, fuck me,” he muttered.

          Tristan stilled immediately. When he turned, the smile was gone from his face, lips in a stern line. Galahad felt like he’d been slapped. Tucking Seven to his side, Tristan held out his hand for Six who took it. He marched them to the door, opened it, handed the kids over to Galahad and returned to his room before the younger man could think of something to say.

          “That’s Tristan’s _naughty_ face,” said Six. “Were you bad?”

          “I think I might have been.”

          “You should apologise and mean it, or Tristan won’t play with you.”

          “Oh.” Galahad ushered the kids out the door, wondering just how badly he did want Tristan to play with him.

* * *

 

          Galahad took a minute standing inside the door of Baddon Hill Nursery to sort himself. It had been another cold walk, and he didn’t want to apologise to Tristan shivering and covered in goose bumps. It hadn’t helped that he’d chosen one of his shorter kilts, paired with a very fetching, but very thin black t-shirt with a deep v-neck. It was the outfit that always earned him the most tips, so he figured it might win him some favour while he grovelled.                 

          He waited for the other parents and caregivers to stream out, he never did like apologising in front of an audience. But when every last child was picked up, Tristan still hadn’t emerged from the playroom.

          Six and Seven were tugging at Galahad’s hands, but he held fast. He could out-wait some sparkly haired man with gorgeous cheekbones.

          As if he heard the thought, Tristan turned. Galahad tried to wave Tristan over, but only got a glare in response. Tristan turned and set about stacking chairs in the corner. Galahad was momentarily distracted by the impressive swell of arse he glimpsed when Tristan’s combats stretched tight, but he placed those thoughts aside. He was a bloody adult, and he could apologise like one.      

          The kids trailed him as he walked into the playroom. Galahad swallowed his nerves and attempted a casual voice. “Hey, _uh_ , Tristan?”

          He wasn’t prepared when Tristan whirled to snarl in his face, one long finger poking at him. “I had three background checks before they hired me here, if you’re going to complain about me being with the kids, I’ll-”

          Something flared in Galahad’s stomach. He’d always been a little smaller in school, a little different — he’d learned early not to let anyone cow him. So, he snarled right back, teeth almost brushing Tristan’s finger. “You’ll what?”

          Something twitched at the corner of Tristan’s mouth, his eyes seemed to glitter just a bit under the fluorescent lights. “I’ll file a complaint and have you taken off the pickup list.”

          “You can’t do that!” Galahad spluttered.

          “They’re not your kids and you’re abusing the staff.” Tristan raised a challenging eyebrow that sparkled blue in one corner, and Galahad was again struck with how very handsome this infuriating asshole was.

          “I have never abused-” But Tristan was no longer facing him. The man seemed to be gone in an instant, dropping down to crouch beside the children milling around Galahad’s legs.

          “What does he like to call me, Freckles?” Tristan smiled at Six, pointing back up at Galahad.

          “Scruffy dog!” Six reached forward, tugging one of Tristan’s plaits. Tristan barked, snapping his teeth at her in a play bite. With a squeal, Six hid behind Galahad’s leg, giggling.

          “I didn’t- Six misunderstood-” 

          “No, I didn’t either, Gal!” Six tugged on Galahad’s kilt. “You said he was a scruffy dog!”

          “I didn’t say scruffy…”

          “You told Miss Suzy he needed dipped fleas!”

          “Flea dip,” Tristan corrected, leveling a flat glare at Galahad as he stood. Galahad felt his face heat. “Your friend is saying I have fleas.”

          “Oh,” Six smacked at Galahad’s knee, her face screwed up in a little scowl. “That’s not nice, Galahad.”

          “No,” Galahad sighed, letting his hand drop to Six’s head. “No, it’s not. I said something rude and inexcusable. I was trying to apologise when you threatened me. I shouldn’t have-”

          Tristan cocked his head, smile playing at the corners of his lips. “When did I threaten you, Pup? I sai-”

          “You said you’d-” Galahad frowned. “Pup?”

          Tristan’s smile grew just a bit, spreading his full lips. Galahad felt his whole body flush warm. “If I’m a dog, a young thing like you must be a pup.”

          Galahad’s mouth dropped open. He snapped it shut after a moment, feeling something fluttering in his chest again. _Was…was that a line?_ Tristan’s face dropped back to a stoic expression, but something danced in the depths of those honeyed eyes. Galahad had just about decided upon a flirty retort when Tristan bent low, scooping up Seven and the stuffie still clutched in the boy’s hands.

          “And you, you’re a hawk, aren’t you, Wee Man?” Seven unleashed an ungodly screech, which Galahad assumed was his version of a bird noise and began flapping his arms. “Ah, want to fly, do you?”

          Tristan shifted his hold on the boy, big hands clutching Seven’s middle as he swooped him around the room. Galahad was beginning to feel entirely too warm, he wondered what those big hands might feel like clenching around his middle. When Tristan tossed Seven in the air, both of them whooping and smiling, Galahad felt his stomach clench. He liked Tristan’s smile. He liked it far more than he should. He started to let himself imagine just how soft that beard would feel against his neck and how they would laugh as Galahad plucked glitter from Tristan’s hair as he pulled the older man into the bath.

          When the flight ended, Tristan lowered the boy to the ground and squawked at him. Seven hesitated for a second before hugging Tristan’s leg. Tristan pet through Seven’s hair smiling when the boy ran to hold his big sister’s hand. There was really no reason to linger any longer, but Galahad felt a pull to stay. He scuffed his boot trying to think of a reason. 

          “Well, I just wanted to say in person that I’m sorry,” Galahad glanced up at Tristan with a rueful grin. “It was a shi- _uh_ -sure rude of me to say those things.”

          Tristan nodded, and walked back to the chairs he had been straightening. It didn’t feel like enough absolution. Galahad wanted to make sure the man before him understood he was really and truly sorry. He wasn’t sure how to do that, so he rambled. “You see, it’s just…I’ve been up late going over things for my final exam, and I was tired…and it was cold out…”

          Tristan was watching Galahad again, eyes sharp and assessing. “I bet it’s quite cold in that little skirt.”

          “Kilt.” Galahad steeled his jaw. He’d heard enough teasing and shouting about his wardrobe choices on the street. “Goodnight.”

          “Don’t snarl, Pup. I wa-”

          “We need to go, Six and Seven need their supper. Goodnight.” Holding out his hand for Six to grab, Galahad turned on his heel and walked out the door. Six and Seven formed a human chain in his wake, shouting their goodbyes to Tristan. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much that Tristan made fun of his kilt — he’d called the man a dog, after all — but it did. He had thought there was something beginning between them, at least the spark of something. And now he had to walk home in the cold, the knowledge that Tristan was just another laddish ass with outdated opinions whipping at Galahad along with the wind.

          He spent the rest of his night sullenly eating peanuts and pouring lagers, chiding himself when it occurred to him that the beer matched Tristan’s eyes.

* * *

 

          For three days afterwards, Galahad wore jeans to work. He wasn’t uncomfortable in jeans, but he felt like an absolute dolt for abandoning his kilts because some scraggly man at a nursery school had teased him. It certainly wasn’t the first time someone had shouted at him about a little skirt, or even attempted to flip it up as they passed him, but for some reason it hurt that Tristan was the same as every random arsehole who yelled on the streets. He was bothered that he was bothered, and really that was the worst bit.

          His wardrobe choices hadn’t escaped notice. Vanora had clapped a strong hand on his shoulder, asking if he wanted to talk. He also suspected that Six might have mentioned something to her mother, because Vanora didn’t ask him to pick up the kids, telling him she’d cover it from now on. He’d smiled and given her a squeeze, she always did have a big heart.

          Bors, on the other hand, had a big fucking mouth. When he noticed on day three that Galahad was wearing jeans he laughed. “See? I told you it was a cold as a witch’s tit out there!”

          “What are you on about?” Vanora didn’t look up from going over the accounts.

          “It’s so cold even Gal has to cover up those legs!”

          He didn’t duck quickly enough and Vanora’s pen knocked him dead on the head. “You talk about his outfit or his legs again, you’ll be carrying kegs all day.”

          “I do that anyway!” Bors complained, rubbing his head with a meaty hand.

          “I’ll make you do it in a kilt, then!”

          “I JUST MEANT IT WAS COLD!” Bors roared at no one in particular. He skulked off to the back room, muttering about crazy women.

          When Vanora left to retrieve the kids, Galahad almost volunteered to go. He stopped himself with a scoff, he couldn’t believe he actually wanted to run down to the Nursery just to prove to Tristan that he wore jeans every now and then. He had nothing to prove and no one to prove it to — especially not some honey-eyed old man with grey streaks in his beard and glittery knots in his hair.

          Twenty minutes after Vanora left, she and the kids banged into the bar wearing folded paper skirts. Six and Seven raced around the bar to Galahad, before stopping and frowning.

          “Oh,” Six scuffed her shoe on the ground. “You’re wearing trousers again.”

          Galahad huffed, tilting his head. “What am I meant to be wearing?”

          “KILTS!” Seven shouted, twirling so his paper skirt fluttered.

          “What now?”

          “Tristan taught us all about kilts today — and all sorts of skirts that men wear.” Six bounced, her little paper kilt fanning with the movement. “Did you know kilts were warrior outfits for the Scottish? Romans and Greeks wore skirts too! Men who wear them are fierce and brave! Look! He helped us make some!”

          Six and Seven spun, laughing as their stapled paper kilts crinkled.

          “He made one for mummy too!”

          Vanora curtseyed in her paper kilt before raising a brow at Galahad. “I’m not sure I’m the one he made it for, but I got it just the same.”

          “Tristan wore one too, but it wasn’t like yours!” Six exclaimed. She frowned, her mouth twisting as she tried to form a new word. “It was stiff. He said it was a…t-turgid?”

          “Pteruges?” Galahad offered. His body ran hot and cold at the idea of Tristan’s long legs and round bum being covered by the leather strips of Roman armour. He was suddenly very glad for his loose jeans.

          “No,” Six said dismissively. “It was turgid.”

          “TURGID!” Seven yelled, spinning while holding up his stuffie, which Galahad noted also had a small kilt around its tail.

          “Alright, that’s enough, go on upstairs and torture your brothers and sisters, Galahad has work to do.” Vanora shooed the kids toward the back room that lead to the stairs to their apartment. When Six and Seven’s clomping footsteps could be heard ascending to the flat above, Vanora picked up a clipboard to do an inventory in their small kitchen.

          “Hey, Vanora?”

          “Hmmm?” She was scribbling something on the clipboard, paper kilt still stapled around her waist.

          “I can do the nursery pickup tomorrow…if, _uh_ , if you’re busy.”

          “Thought you might say that.” Vanora curtseyed again in her little kilt, smiling as she wandered back into the kitchen.


	2. Pitching a Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scraped knees, a tantrum from Galahad, and traumatized children - what more could you ask for?

          The gel, in hindsight, had been a horrid mistake. Galahad nipped into the back room to put some in his hair, just to define his curls and primp them into a pleasing formation, right before he left for Baddon Hill Nursery. Vanora had smiled wide when he emerged.

          “You look nice.”

          “Shut up.”

          “In my day, I’d roll my skirt up too, just to get the message across.”

          Galahad flicked a middle finger at his boss, before rolling the waist of his kilt once and running out the door.

          He’d felt quite hot until the wind started. Then he’d felt so cold he nearly ran all the way to the nursery. When he reached the door, he saw his reflection in the window and nearly ran back to the bar.

          The extra-hold gel in his hair had done its job wonderfully—locking all the wind-blown styling into Galahad’s curls. He looked like a mad lion, wild curls sticking out at odd angles and sprouting gravity defying spirals.

          “Shit.” Galahad pressed at his hair, but it sprang back, held firmly in place by the traitor gel.

          “Windy out?”

          Galahad’s eyes closed.

_Fuck. Of course_. “Hello, Tristan.”

          Something touched his curls and Galahad whirled only to find Tristan holding up what looked like a cough sweet wrapper.

          “GODS, was that in my hair?”

          Tristan smiled. “Don’t worry, I don’t fret over hairstyles.”

          Galahad laughed. Today, Tristan had multiple pink hair clips clasped to the ends of his ragged plaits. There was also a streak of glitter in his beard that made Galahad’s fingers itch to stroke it.

          “It’s sweet of you to let them practice on your hair.”

          Tristan shrugged and Galahad thought he could see a slight flush creep over the man’s beard. “I’m a good dog, rarely bite anymore.”

          “But an annoying young pup might induce you to?” Galahad reached up and tugged at one of Tristan’s hair clips. Tristan’s eyes caught with Galahad’s and for a moment, the younger man wondered if Vanora would be very cross with him if the kids were an hour or so late getting home while he and Tristan worked out a few things in the nearest broom closet.

          “TRISTAN! GAL! SEVEN’S DEAD!” Both men leapt apart as if electrocuted before turning to look at Six, who was crying hysterically. She pointed out the back of the playroom toward the playground. Tristan took off running, Galahad pausing long enough to scoop up Six and assure her that it was very unlikely that Seven was in fact dead—especially since he could hear wailing from outside and that was usually a good indicator of life.

          Galahad and Six arrived just in time to see Tristan gather the boy from a frantic looking worker. Apparently, there had been a monkey bar mishap and poor Seven had fallen, his gloves slipping from the bars as he attempted a solo trek. He’d scraped up his knee rather badly, but his lungs were in good order, judging by the blood curdling screams Seven was emitting as Tristan carried him inside.

          “Wee Man, _shhhh_ look at me boy,” Tristan settled Seven on one of the crafting desks and regarded him with serious eyes. “You’re in far too much pain, little one, you’re going to have to share it if we’re getting through this.”

          Seven looked at him with wide, red eyes. Snot bubbled down his nose and his lips trembled. Tristan swiped at the boy's face with a tissue before leaning closer.

          “Grab hold of Galahad’s hand and squeeze it until you’ve given him half your pain,” Tristan held up a cautionary finger. “But don’t give him too much, we don’t want to hurt him too badly, do we?”

          Seven shook his head, reaching out and squeezing Galahad’s fingers. Galahad opened his mouth in mock horror. “That’s only half the pain? Gods in heaven, you’re tough!”

          That earned Galahad a watery smile as Tristan opened up the first aid kit and gently pushed up the boy’s stained trouser leg, revealing a bit of blood and some nasty scrapes. The fingers clutching Galahad tightened when the boy spotted the blood. Turning to Six, Tristan smiled. “Freckles, I need you to go find his hawk, he’ll need him to cuddle later.”

          Six nodded gravely, rushing off on her mission to retrieve the stuffie.

          “Alright, now that she’s gone, I can tell you the truth,” Tristan said with all the stoicism of a General about to send his troops into battle. “I’ve never seen an injury so bad, nor a boy so brave. I’ve got to ask you to be brave for one more moment while I disinfect this and put a plaster on it. Can you do it, Wee Man?”

          Seven’s lip trembled, but he nodded, taking a deep breath.

          “You can grip my hand harder if you need too,” Galahad whispered. “I think I can take a little more of the pain.”

          Seven’s fingers dug into Galahad’s hand immediately. With an exaggerated gasp Galahad pretended to fall off his seat, shaking and making silly faces as he pretended to spasm from pain. Seven laughed, barely noticing when Tristan swiped disinfectant over his knee or put a fresh plaster over the wound.

          “Done!” Tristan nudged Seven. “You best let go, I don’t think he can take much more.”

          Seven released Galahad, who made a show of weakly crawling back on his seat and leaning on the table. Tristan and Seven grinned at him when he looked up, panting.

          “I FOUND HIM!” Six rushed back to her brother, stepping on Tristan’s hand in her haste to crawl up the seats to reach Seven. “Here you go! You can cuddle him now and be better!”

          Tristan grabbed the bird and flew it around Seven’s head before allowing it to land and peck kisses on the boy’s scraped knee. “I think you brother is going to live, Freckles.”

          Six wrapped her arms around Tristan and kissed his cheek. Galahad frowned at the knowledge that he was jealous of a small child. He turned to look at Seven, who was drawing wet breaths as he looked at his stuffie.

          “What’s wrong?”

          “I’m s-sorry.” Seven’s lip started to tremble again.

          Tristan shifted Six to his lap and stroked Seven’s arm. “What are you sorry for, Wee Man?”

          “I s-shouldn’t have c-cried.” Tears were already welling in his eyes again. “I should b-be a big lad, like Daddy says, like One.”

          “One?”

          “His brother.”

          “There are actually seven of them?”

          Galahad nodded. Tristan raised an eyebrow at that, but pursed his lips rather than comment.

          Galahad rested a hand on Seven’s undamaged leg. “It’s not bad to cry, Sev.”

          Seven looked dubious, he turned to look askance at Tristan.

          “Were you hurt?” The older man asked. Seven nodded. “Then why wouldn’t you cry? I would cry.”

          “You cry?”

          “All the time,” Tristan confirmed. “Once you leave for the day, I’ve got no one to play with and I get very sad.”

          “Hey, do you know what would make you brave?” Galahad asked.

          “What?”

          “Trying the monkey bars again.” Seven frowned, but Galahad gave him an encouraging smile. “We’ll go with you. And if you do it now, you won’t be afraid anymore.”

          Seven took a steadying breath, then nodded. Tristan and Six clapped. Galahad picked Seven up and carried him back to the monkey bars. Six led a few of the kids in cheering as Seven tried again, this time with Tristan and Galahad walking beside him as he swung from rung to rung. Tristan caught Galahad’s eye as they spotted for Seven and winked, and the younger man again considered if it would be thought inappropriate to dry hump a nursery worker in front of a playground full of children.

          When Seven successfully completed his run on the bars without incident, he shooed Galahad and Tristan away, wanting to do it again, on his own. They walked a few paces away, leaning on the fence.

          “So, you cry whenever the kids leave you, huh?” Galahad shivered as the wind picked up again.

          Tristan stood, his broad back and shoulders blocking part of the chill from Galahad’s torso. “No one likes to be lonely.”

          “You strike me as the solitary type.”

          “Didn’t know I struck you at all.” Tristan’s mouth curled slightly. “When’s the last time you cried, Pup?”

          “When I saw the reading list for last term.”

          “You’re at university?”

          “Worse, postgraduate work.”

          “Going to save the world?”

          “Nah, I’m not the type. Just want to be an architect.” Galahad looked up and realised just how close Tristan was. One step and they would be chest-to-chest. Galahad shifted, his body wanting to close the gap.

          “Tristan!”

          Galahad was flooded with cold as Tristan spun on his heel and headed for the woman waving to him. She was absolutely beautiful, long brown hair, pretty blue eyes, dressed like she’d just popped over after a Vogue photo shoot. Galahad hated her instantly. Honestly, who dressed like that to pick up a kid?

          A little boy swung around her long legs, smiling brightly when Tristan bent down to give him a hug. When Tristan straightened, he grinned at the mother, who was entirely too close to be decent. Galahad watched as she stepped forward and tugged on one of Tristan’s plaits before laughing and landing that same hand on his chest.

          “Tart,” He muttered only to hear an excited gasp coming from somewhere below his knee.

          “DID MUMMY MAKE TARTS?”

          “Six, no, I-”

          “YOU SAID TARTS!”

          Tristan and the tart had turned to glance at Six. Galahad sighed, cheeks burning. “I meant we could pick them up on the way home, Six.”

          “SEVEN! GAL SAYS WE’RE GETTING TARTS!”

          Seven jumped from the monkey bars in a way that led Galahad to believe the boy had forgotten about his near-death knee-scraping just minutes before. They nearly dragged him from the playground, but as Galahad glanced back, he noted with some dissatisfaction that the tart’s hand was still on Tristan’s chest, plucking at non-existent lint on his t-shirt. Tristan was smiling at her nodding along as she spoke, and Galahad felt a bit foolish.

          Maybe the handsome glitter covered man at the nursery didn’t give a toss about him? Maybe he just flirted with everyone?

* * *

 

          “I thought you said we were getting tarts?” Six poked at her ice cream sundae.

          “You don’t want your ice cream, I’ll give it to Seven,” Galahad pulled the straw out of his milkshake to gesture at Seven, who had put his whole face into his bowl.

          “NO!” Six pulled the ice cream closer, casting suspicious glances at her brother and Galahad.

          He waited a few moments until both children settled into their treats. Galahad wasn’t sure if he was working up the courage to ask them, or merely ashamed of how pathetic he was for bribing children with sweets. “So…your friend Tristan…is he married?”

          “No.” Six didn’t look up from her sundae. Seven, concerningly, had whipped cream in his hair and his spoon lay untouched by his dish.

          “What about the lady who was tugging his hair today?”

          “Oh, that’s Morgan’s mum.”

          Galahad twirled the straw in his milkshake, trying for nonchalant. “Does she pet him like that a lot?”

          “Lots of the mums like to pet Tristan.”

          Galahad took a sip of his shake, anything to keep from clenching his jaw. “Hmmm…does he pet any of them?”

          Six looked up, squinting at Galahad. “Why?”

          “I was just wondering if he had any special friends.”

          Six frowned at that, pointing at Seven and herself. “We’re his special friends!”

          “No _uh_ that’s not what I meant.”

          “What did you mean?” Six was watching him like a bug under a glass, it was unnerving how like her mother she could be.

          “Just uh, he said he was lonely, remember?”

          “Right, when we leave.” Six spoke to him as if he was a little slow, turning her hand to lick at a smear of toffee.

          “Yes, well,” Gods, Galahad never wanted kids, they made things so damn difficult. “I was just thinking maybe Tristan should have a playdate, after you leave…one with adults.”

          “OH! Then he won’t be lonely!”

          Seven coughed, sending a splutter of whipped cream and toffee along the table, but never stopped eating. Galahad figured he was fine and pressed on. “Right. SO, if I were to organise a playdate for Tristan, do you think he’d like me to invite boys or girls?”

          Six squinted at that. “I dunno…both I suppose?”

          Seven reared up from his dish, his entire face a smear of gloopy toffee and streaks of vanilla ice cream.

          “NO GIRLS!” He roared. For the first time, Galahad could spot the family resemblance. “GIRLS ARE STUPID!”

          “AM NOT!”

          “ARE TOO! TONY SAID SO!”

          “AM NOT AM NOT AM NOT!” Six shoved her brother. Seven sunk a hand into his sundae, emerging with a squishy projectile.

          “ARE TOO ARE TOO ARE T-”

          “STOP!” Both kids turned, wide-eyed to Galahad, as did most of the ice cream shop. He tried to ignore the blush creeping up his cheeks and adopt a tone of authority. “Both of you stop this instant or I’m telling your parents and you’ll never SEE ice cream again.”

          This, as it turned out, was the wrong strategy. Seven’s face crumpled immediately and he began to wail. Six sniffled at the injustice of it all, as Seven started it and it was clearly his fault. Both kids worked themselves into hysteria with a startling speed, until the only wise course was retreat. Throwing some money on the table, Galahad grabbed both sticky little monsters and fled to The Round Table.

          When they reached the pub’s door, he kicked it open, and tromped inside with a screaming child on each hip. He smiled sheepishly at Vanora when he handed her Seven, who was now more snot and toffee than child.

          Vanora raised an eyebrow, Galahad tried to smile. Bors stepped out of the kitchen, looked at the scene before him, and fled back behind the door.

          “I…I thought I’d take them for ice cream.” Galahad offered. The mention of ice cream triggered another round of wailing. Six wiggled from Galahad’s hold to fall at her mother’s feet, grabbing at Vanora's jeans with grubby hands and begging that she be allowed ice cream again—just once, before she died.

          Vanora opened her mouth, closed it, then gathered Six up to rest on her other hip. She turned to level a flat stare at Galahad. “Can you manage to set up on your own without making Bors cry?”

          Galahad shrugged helplessly. “No promises.”

          When Vanora returned 15 minutes before the dinner rush, Galahad felt like a total bastard. “Are they OK? Should I apologise myself? Tell me what toy I should get them.”

          Vanora sighed. “I told them that their Uncle Gal was a very silly man and he doesn’t control ice cream consumption in the UK.”

          “I’m so sorry. I was just-”

          “Asking my kids if Tristan would like a playdate?” Galahad ran a hand over his eyes. Vanora swatted his shoulder. “Christ, man, I know it’s been a while since you’ve had some, but try not to traumatise my kids over it!”

          “I know, I’m sorry. There was just—I thought we had a moment, and then this woman came by and started pawing at him.”

          “Tarted up brunette? Little boy with glasses hanging off her arm while she flirts?”

          “Yeah.”

          “Alana does that every pickup, I wouldn’t worry about her.” Vanora waved a dismissive hand. “She supposedly married, probably just getting a little thrill.”

          “He didn’t exactly resist.”

          “You think he wants to deal with pissy mothers at every pickup? Or kids asking why he’s mean to their mums?”

          Galahad sneered. “So he’s nice to everyone.”

          “He is,” Vanora nodded. “He’s a lovely man. But…”

          “But what?”

          “He’s only ever taught the kids about one skirt I can think of.” Vanora grinned.

          “So, you think I should ask him…” Galahad waved his hands helplessly. “What should I ask him?”

          “I think you should ask him if he wants to study your kilt up close for his next lesson plan.” Galahad laughed. Vanora filled a beer and passed it to a customer. “That or I can get Six to arrange a playdate for you two.”

          Galahad refilled the pretzels. “She’d probably muck it up less than I would.”

          “Don’t be too sure, that child is her father’s daughter, if ever there was one.” Vanora nodded to Bors, who was trying to open a container of peanuts, when the lid wouldn’t give, he roared, smashing it on the bar and creating a hailstorm of legumes.

* * *

 

          When Six barreled through the door the next day, she stopped short to glare at Galahad. “You’re not in charge of ice cream.”

          Galahad shook his head, coming around the bar to kneel in front of the girl. Seven hung back, peering at Galahad from behind his mother’s leg. “I’m terribly sorry, old girl. I should have never joked about something as serious as ice cream.”

          Six squinted at him, trying to maintain her scowl, but she swung her arms back and forth as she regarded him. “You’re sorry?”

          “Desperately.”

          “You won’t do it again?”

          “No.”

          “Why were you so mean?”

          “I-” He stopped short and looked askance to Vanora. _I desperately wanted to shag your teacher and threw a bit of a wobbly when that didn’t happen_ seemed like something you don’t tell children. Vanora rolled her eyes and made a _continue_ gesture. “I was upset about something and I got frustrated. I shouldn’t have got mad at you, or asked you all those questions.”

          “About Tristan?”

          “Yeah,” Galahad caught Six’s hand and brought it to his lips. “You’re my friends, and I should have been having fun with you, not asking you about him.”

          “Why did you?”

          Galahad ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose I wanted a playdate with Tristan, but it seemed like he didn’t want to play. So instead of being a good friend to you I was selfish and let myself get mad.”

          “It’s OK, I get mad sometimes too. I bit Felicity today when she pushed Seven.”

          “I think that might be a little more justified than what I did.” Galahad laughed when Vanora glared. Turning back to the girl before him, he smiled. “I really am sorry, Sixy.”

          Six pretended to think for a moment, then smiled wide. “OK.”

          She flung herself into Galahad’s arms. He caught her and leaped to his feet, spinning her around the bar.

          “Thank you thank you thank you,” Galahad pressed loud smacking kisses on her cheeks until she was laughing so loudly his ears were ringing. When he set her down, he crouched again. “Now, how do you think I can make it up to your brother?”

          Six thought for a moment. “Ice cream?”

          “Not today, Miss,” Vanora corrected. “Little monsters who bite do not get ice cream, no matter how sorry their uncle is.”

          Six’s mouth twisted into a moue. “Flying?”

          Galahad nodded, holding out his hands to Seven. “What do you say, Sev? Want to fly?”

          Seven screeched before flapping his wings and running to Galahad. Grabbing the boy in a firm hold, he swooped up, making hawk sounds of his own as he swung him around the bar. Six grabbed her brother’s abandoned stuffie and ran behind them, holding the hawk aloft. Seven clapped and cawed as he traversed the early bar crowd, held safely in Galahad’s hands.

          When they made three passes around the bar, Galahad pulled the boy to his hip. “Do you forgive me, Wee Man?”

          Seven nodded, tugging at the scruff on Galahad’s chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next Up:**  
>  A playdate...


	3. Finger Painting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tristan is invited on a playdate. He accepts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Gwilbers deserves all the credit for this being readable. And also thank you for being my Anglicizing consultant.

          “Vanora? It’s nearly 5:15.”

          Vanora looked up from restocking the gin. “I know.”

          “Did the kids not go to Baddon Hill today?”

          “They did.” There was something warm in Vanora’s voice. Galahad knew if she turned, she’d be smiling.

          “Don’t you need to go to get the kids?” Galahad, tapped his fingers on the bar. “Do- _uh_ …do you want me to go?”

          Galahad hadn’t dared to volunteer for Brat Pickup for a week. He’d felt like a total shit using the kids and had decided that maybe handsome men with glitter in their beards should be off limits to someone who made such terrible choices. After his winter semester, he’d go down to the nursery by himself and ask Tristan out—no pretext of picking up the kids, no stupid little games. He’d just ask if Tristan was interested and let the chips fall where they may.

          He hoped the chips fell more toward Tristan rubbing that glittery beard along Galahad's inner thighs, but that was no one’s business but his own.

          “I’ve got someone to bring them back, don’t worry.” Vanora looked around the bar shelves before yelling. “BORS, YOU USELESS SOD, IF I FIND OUT THE WILD TURKEY IS GONE BECAUSE YOU’VE BEEN NIPPING AT IT AGAIN—you’ve got the front, haven’t you Gal?”

          Galahad smiled. “Look behind the pretzel bags, that’s where he’s been hiding it lately.”

          “Don’t get married,” Vanora warned. “And if you do get married, keep him frightened or he’ll run amok.”

          Galahad touched two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, watching as Vanora stomped to the kitchen. He went back to sweeping up the peanut shells that always managed to miss the refuse buckets. He was emptying his third pail of peanut detritus when the door opened and he heard Six chattering happily.

          When he turned to greet her, he nearly fell over his own feet. Tristan was holding Six’s hand, Seven secured to his hip. He looked exactly as Galahad remembered him—streaks of glitter in his beard and his hair a mass of tangled plaits and assorted hair clips. He was wearing an old band t-shirt for Lancelot and the Knights that was torn at the collar and covered in glitter and paints. His combats were similarly abused, but well fitting—and that was about the moment he realised that he’d been staring directly at Tristan’s crotch for far longer than any decent person should.

          Galahad finally drew his eyes up to find Tristan watching him, his honeyed-eyes creased in amusement.

          “Gal! LOOK! I brought him for you!” Six swung the hand holding Tristan’s, pulling the man closer to the bar. She let go briefly to climb onto a bar stool. Seven, it seemed was content to stay on Tristan’s hip—Galahad couldn’t blame the kid.

          Tristan held up a note. “Six’s mum sent a note in with her, asking if I was available for a playdate…with _uh…_ with you.”

          Galahad was going to faint. His face was going to catch fire and he would die of smoke inhalation before he hit the ground. Letting his mouth waggle wordlessly, Galahad tried to think of a response, a word, a sound even.

          “You don’t have to be shy, Gal,” Six took his hand in hers and patted it hard—her version of being reassuring. “Tristan’s fun to play with.”

          Tristan’s mouth curved just a bit, his eyes dancing. “I am.”

          _Oh gods, he really was going to die in this pub._

          “He lets you jump on him!”

          That bloody smile grew wider, the glitter in his beard catching the low lights of the bar. “I do.”

          “He’s very good at rides, too!”

          “Well,” Tristan ruffled Six’s hair, his smile so wide his crooked teeth were showing. “One doesn’t want to brag.”

          “Do you want to go play now?”

          “Very much,” Tristan looked up, catching Galahad’s gaze. He felt like heat was searing up his spine. Tristan licked his lips, cocking his head. “But I don’t think your mummy and daddy would appreciate me playing with Galahad when he’s supposed to be working, do you?”

          Six frowned. “I suppose not.”

          Tristan leaned forward, hand resting next to Galahad’s on the bar. It took everything in the younger man not to join their fingers. “Maybe we could play after you’re done?”

          Galahad smiled, nodding slightly. Tristan’s hand shifted, warm fingers running over the back of Galahad’s hand. Suddenly, there wasn’t another person in the pub. Galahad leaned forward, needing to be closer to those lovely eyes.

          “That’s a good idea,” chirped Six, trying to tug Tristan away from the bar. “Do you want to see my lizard while you wait?”

          “Six! Seven! What are you two doing hanging about the bar? Upstairs with you!” Vanora emerged and fussed her children into the back. When she returned, she smiled sweetly at Tristan, who was still rubbing his fingers along Galahad’s wrist and hand. “Thank you again for dropping the monsters off, Tristan. Is there anything I can do to thank you?”

          Tristan turned, and Galahad felt like some delicate spell had been broken. He was rather put out to remember other people existed.

          “It was no trouble, Vanora.” Tristan shifted the satchel on his shoulder. “Do you have somewhere I could get changed? I might be a bit scruffy for this place.”

          “You haven’t seen Bors,” Vanora joked. She pointed behind her. “Toilets are back there. I’ll save a stool for you, shall I?”

          “Please.” Tristan dragged his fingers one last time over Galahad’s before walking away from the bar.

          “I’m going to kill you,” Galahad hissed the second the toilet door closed behind Tristan.

          “Yes, I can see you’re very upset,” Vanora glanced down. “Might want to stay behind the bar until your kilt sorts itself.”

          Galahad looked in horror at the very obvious tenting at his front. “Gods, did he see?”

          “You best hope he did!” Shouted Bors as he brought a crate of spirits to the bar. “Hell of an advertisement for your sort of playdate.”

          Galahad lunged for Bors, but he was surprisingly quick for a man so big. He dodged the younger man and moved to stand in front of the bar.

          “I’m saying you’ve got a big cock!” Bors complained, he nudged a man nursing his beer. “Imagine being mad when someone compliments your bits!”

          The bar fly nodded, holding up his empty glass. Galahad took it, hoping he’d die of embarrassment before Tristan emerged from the toilet.

* * *

 

          When Tristan strolled back around to the bar, Galahad nearly told Vanora he was taking the night off. She probably would have understood, she seemed a little struck herself.       

          Tristan had managed to get the plaits out of his hair, it fell in rough waves around his eyes and shoulders, streaked with glitter from countless little hands digging through it. He had tucked the brown locks behind his ears, opening his face and giving Galahad a better look at the tattoos on his cheeks. Tristan’s beard was still touched with glitter, highlighting the silver streaks along his chin. He had changed his loose band shirt for a tight black v-neck that gripped along his biceps. The collar dipped just low enough for Galahad to see a soft bramble of chest hair peeking over the edge of the opening—he would be using that as a pillow tonight or die trying. Just beneath the edge of the right sleeve was some writing, another tattoo he’d have to study once he got the man’s shirt off. The shirt softly clung to a slight tummy that didn’t belie the strength in Tristan’s arms or chest, but made his body seem snuggly and warm. Jeans clasped to Tristan’s hips, tighter than his combats ever were and outlining every inch of his firm bum and slim legs. Galahad let his eyes linger just long enough to determine that Tristan was…left leaning, before filing that information away in his brain.

          Tristan smiled softly, slinking onto the stool before Galahad and slinging his satchel at his feet. He bent forward as he settled and something pink caught Galahad’s attention. He didn’t know what possessed him, but Galahad leant forward and grabbed the hair band, tugging.

          “Is this one your favourite?” Galahad twirled it around his finger again.

          Tristan turned a slight pink colour, grabbing at the plait. “Thought I got them all.”

          Galahad pulled the plait from Tristan’s fingers. “Leave it. Please?”

          Laughing lightly Tristan dropped his hand. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now, nothing to be done about the glitter anyway.”

          “I rather like it.” Galahad let his fingers drop, falling to trace a line of blue sparkles on Tristan’s chin. He held up his finger, letting the glitter catch in the low light. If he did this, if he let himself really do this, he’d be covered in glitter for the rest of his life. Galahad found he rather liked the thought. Realising belatedly that he’d been grinning like a fool into Tristan’s face, Galahad cleared his throat. “Uh, beer?”

          “What do you recommend?”

          “You ever had a pint of Lecter’s?” When Tristan shook his head, Galahad smiled, grabbing a glass. “It’s a pretty standard lager, except for the aftertaste, there’s some ingredient in here that no one can seem to guess. Whatever it is, it’s excellent.”

          “Sounds…odd.” Tristan ducked his head. Galahad noticed a few sparkles falling onto the bar. “Why not?”

          Galahad busied himself filling the glass and handing it over to Tristan. He blinked a few more times and couldn’t keep the silly smile off his face. “You’re here.”

          “I am.”

          “I…uh…” The inevitability of where this was headed crashed down around Galahad’s shoulders. They both knew, understood, what would happen the second Galahad got off work. That knowledge left him feeling awkward, as if small talk would cheapen whatever was happening between them. Still, they had a few hours to kill… “So, did you…always want a job that would cover you in glitter?”

          Tristan barked out a laugh, Galahad’s stomach twisted at the sound. “Are you asking me if I wanted to be a stripper, Pup?”

          Galahad flicked a paper coaster at him, missing. “No. I meant did you always want to work with children?”

          “Ah,” Tristan dipped below the bar to retrieve the coaster. “It’s not nice to throw things, Pup. Did Freckles learn her bad habits from you?”

          “She has better aim.”

          Tristan flicked his wrist. The coaster sailed by Galahad and landed neatly on the stacked pile. Galahad gawped at the coaster, then at Tristan, who smiled. “She learned that from me.”

          “How did you-”

          “I aimed for the middle.”

          Galahad scoffed. “What, were you in the circus?”

          “Close.” Tristan took a sip of beer and licked the foam from his upper lip. He pulled up the right sleeve of his shirt up to reveal his tattoo—a knight’s helmet with a sword through it. “I was in SRR.”

          “Are you trying to tell me you were in the military or a tattooist?”

          “Special Reconnaissance Regiment.”

          “You were a spy?”

          Tristan laughed. “Technically, no—just a sneaky bastard. They sent us into places where reconnaissance was a good idea.”

          Galahad tapped the tattoo. “Did they send you in with helmets and swords?”

          “I’ll have you know that’s Excalibur.”

          “Apologies to Queen and country.” Galahad smiled, tracing the sword and feeling the flex of strong muscle under his finger. “So where did you go?”

          “Classified places.”

          “What did you do?”

          “Classified things.”

          “If you told me, would you have to kill me?”

          Tristan caught Galahad’s finger and brought it to his lips. “Let’s not find out, Pup.”

          Galahad grinned, crooking his finger in Tristan’s loose grip to trace along his lips. “I’ll tempt fate another day, then.”

          Tristan released him, taking another long pull of his drink.

          “Alright, how did you go from Alec Leamas to Mary Poppins, surely that’s not classified?”

          Rolling his neck, Tristan settled his elbows onto the bar. He looked like a contented cat splayed and waiting for someone to pet him. Galahad had to admit he was sorely tempted. “My friend Arthur moved from SRR to MI6-”

          “So, you ARE a spy!”

          “No, pup, he’s a spy.” Tristan gestured to himself. “I’m retired.”

          “That’s just what a spy would say.”

          “Yes, lots of great counterintelligence to mine in a nursery school.” Tristan scoffed slightly, eyes dancing. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Did you know there’s a head lice outbreak among the boys?”

          “I still think you’re a spy,” Galahad teased. “But continue.”

          “When Arthur moved to MI6 they kept him out of the field. He was starting to drive his wife mad, buzzing about her because he didn’t know what to do with his free time. So, she told him to find something to do or she’d brain him.” Galahad laughed as Tristan paused for another sip of beer. “He decided to volunteer at a program for underprivileged kids. I was staying on his sofa at the time and I thought I should go with him.”

          Tristan shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips. “I liked the kids. The little ones are fun, and it beats slogging through Kabul for weeks at a time.”

          “So, you decided to give piggybacks professionally?”

          “I’m a fine piggybacker, I’ll have you know.” Tristan raised an eyebrow and Galahad felt heat pool low in his gut.

          “I’ll check your references with Six and Seven.”

          “Better hurry, I won’t be doing it for much longer.”

          “Oh?”

          “My postgraduate program starts in the Autumn.” Tristan smiled. “I’ll be in class and missing the kids.”

          “Oh no, really?” Galahad frowned. “They’ll miss you terribly.”

          Tristan grinned, reaching up to tug on one of Galahad’s curls. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll still be around.”

* * *

 

          Eventually, Galahad did have to work. He reluctantly left his spot hovering by Tristan to tend to other customers. He was carrying an order of chips to a table in the back when he noticed Tristan was no longer on his stool. Galahad’s heart sunk, he’d thought they were onto something.

          “CHRIST! YOU FUCKING BEAUTY!” Bors roared. Galahad nearly upended the chips onto the customers. Even after years of exposure, Galahad wondered how that man didn’t regularly shatter the windows with the boom of his voice.

          Setting the chips safely on the table, Galahad looked over to the dart board where Bors was excitedly shaking a man back and forth. Only when the big man stopped his enthusiastic battery did Galahad realise Tristan was the man in Bors’ hands.

          A grumbling man passed Bors some notes. Bors divided them and offered a share to Tristan, who held up his hand with a smile.

          “You saved my arse and don’t even want a cut?” Bors grabbed Tristan and pulled him into a loud smacking kiss. Galahad froze, eyes wide. Tristan blinked, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. When he saw Galahad watching him, he laughed.

          “OY!” Bors waved at Galahad before pointing back to Tristan. “You do what you want with him when you’re off but when we have a darts tournament next month, he’s mine!”

          Galahad felt the heat creeping up his neck. Tristan shrugged. Bors wrapped a huge arm around the man and steered him toward the other dart players. “GAL! BRING US A ROUND ON ME!”

          Vanora looked up from the bar with a sigh. “You would pick one that gets Bors riled up. If I end up with Eight in nine months, you’re changing all the nappies.”

* * *

 

          Tristan was back on the stool by closing time. He was watching as Galahad collected glasses and wiped down tables. Galahad felt the weight of his stare like a physical hand on him – it made him warm all over. When he returned to the bar, Galahad offered Tristan a smile. “Got away from Bors?”

          “Narrowly,” Tristan nodded to the man in question, sprawled in a booth snoring loudly. “I think we’re engaged? Partners? Something.”

          “You did kiss him.”

          “I’m not sure how much I had to do with that.”

          “Well, that’ll just break his heart,” Galahad was grinning so wide his face hurt. “Here I thought I’d be the one with a playdate.”

          “You could be.”

          “Oh?” Galahad blinked innocently. It had been so long since he’d played this game. “What do you suggest?”

          Tristan pushed his lower lip up, pretending to think. “I’ve got Twister at my place, or finger paints?”

          Galahad considered for a moment before raising and eyebrow. “Are you any good with finger paints?”

          “I’ve been told I’m dexterous.”

          Gods, Galahad couldn’t wait to test that theory. He smiled, “I suppose I could use some help then, working on my colours.”

          Something thwacked Galahad against his head and blurred his field of vision. Grabbing at it, he realised it was his jacket.

          “Get out of here before I have more to clean up,” Vanora said, smiling.

          “You’re sure, I still have to-”

          “You’ve been doing nothing but gawping for an hour,” Vanora nudged him, grabbing a few more glasses. “I’ll wake Bors up, get him to do the rest.”

          Galahad slipped on his jacket and wrapped an arm around Vanora. “You’re wonderful.”

          “Why do men always say that when they’re about to get laid?”

          Galahad’s mouth dropped open for a moment before he heard Tristan laugh. He rolled his eyes at Vanora and moved around the bar. “I hope you have to carry Bors up the stairs.”

          “Just remember I’m expecting you by four tomorrow, whether you can walk or not.”

          Galahad flipped her off as Tristan pulled him out of the pub.

          The night air was bracing, but when Galahad shivered, Tristan pulled him close. The trembling didn’t seem to be cold related after that. Warm breath fell across Galahad’s cheeks and he looked up to see Tristan close—oh so very close. The older man leaned down, his nose brushing along Galahad’s.

          “Do you mind?” Tristan whispered. “My first kiss tonight was a bit of a let down.”

          “Think this one will be better?” Galahad tilted his head up, chin brushing against Tristan’s beard.

          “Let’s see.” Tristan dipped his head and took Galahad’s mouth. The kiss began sweetly, gentle pressure from Tristan and a soft sweep of tongue against Galahad’s upper lip. Opening his mouth, Galahad pressed harder into Tristan’s body, sinking his hands into the man’s tangled hair and yanking him into a deeper kiss.

          Galahad focused on sucking the tongue out of Tristan’s mouth while the older man dipped slightly and pressed Galahad against a wall. Pinned between a hard surface and Tristan’s mouth, Galahad keened, wrapping a leg around the older man’s hip and grinding up.

          He would have been content to die there, suffocated by Tristan’s mouth and the feeling of strong fingers creeping up his thigh. But a loud bang made them jump apart.

          “GET OFF MY WINDOW,” bellowed Bors. “I’m not cleaning your arse prints off my business, Gal!”    

          Galahad dropped his head to Tristan’s chest and tried to stifle a groan, smiling when the man led him a little way away.

          “OY TRISTAN DON’T FORGET ABOUT TUESDAY!” Tristan waved a hand at Bors as he ushered Galahad down the street. 

          “Tuesday?”

          “There’s a practice for the darts tournament.”

          “Gods, he kissed you first and he already has a second date.”

          “True,” Tristan leaned in, his beard brushing against Galahad’s neck as he nipped lightly at the younger man’s pulse. “But he’s not taking me home.”

          “Hmmm,” Galahad turned, checking to make sure there wasn’t a window behind Tristan before pushing him against a wall. The kiss this time was desperate, Galahad nipping at Tristan’s lower lip and tugging his hair. When he pulled away, Galahad was panting. “Please tell me it’s not far to your flat.”

          “About 10 minutes, unless you plan on groping me the whole way.” Galahad raised a brow. Tristan smiled, pulling Galahad closer and nipping at the knob of his jaw. “Let’s call it 15 then, no more than 20.”

* * *

 

          They made the journey in 17 minutes, somewhat staunched by a light rain. Navigating the stairwell up to Tristan’s flat was an exercise in balance. Twice, Galahad found himself nearly careening down the stairs, only to be pressed to a wall and thoroughly kissed. They fit so beautifully together, Tristan’s soft beseeching kisses calming Galahad’s frantic aggressive ones. They melded into a slow grind at the fourth floor landing, Galahad’s hands hopelessly entwined in Tristan’s hair, Tristan’s thigh slotted snugly between Galahad’s legs as they rutted together.

          “Can we make it a few metres?” Tristan nodded toward a door down the hall. “Or should I just apologise to my neighbours tomorrow?”

          “I can hold out if you can.” Galahad rolled his hips and smiled when Tristan groaned. They broke apart and walked down the hall. Galahad tried not to think too much about the obscene way his kilt was tenting, but judging by the awkward steps Tristan was taking, jeans weren’t a better sartorial choice.

          At the door, Tristan fumbled with his keys and dropped them, cursing himself as be bent to pick them up.

          “I thought you had steady hands.” Galahad murmured, pressing against him.

          “Normally I do, Pup.”

          The lock clicked open and Tristan ushered Galahad inside. It was not what he was expecting. Open brick, a large vaulted ceiling, and a large picture window that looked over the street below. Above the bed against another set of windows was a loft space with a large chair and a stack of books. Galahad would have killed for a studio space with such good bones and he began picturing where he’d fit his furniture in the cavernous space.

          Letting Tristan slip his coat off his shoulders, Galahad left his shoes by Tristan’s at the door and wandered into the kitchen. Colourful pictures were taped to nearly every surface—childish drawings, dedicated to Tristan in half-formed letters. On the worktop was a pile of rocks, all painted with different neon colours. Galahad’s chest tightened—this man not only cared for children, he cherished their gifts. Galahad thought of his own apartment, where he had no less than four painted rocks from Six and what he believed to be a Hawk flying with a beer in its talons taped to his fridge from Seven. They would look good joining the gallery in Tristan’s kitchen.

          “Do not fall in love with this man right now,” Galahad whispered to himself. He usually had trouble making connections, but for some reason his body seemed to go static whenever Tristan looked at him. His heart pounded, his breath caught, and he began to see little visions of his future. Maybe it was a stroke, that would at least be more sensible. Galahad, rolled his neck, steeling himself. “You’re not in love, you just need to get laid. Go out there and stop being such a fool.”  

          Walking back into the main room, Galahad found Tristan carefully arranging something on his dining table. Grabbing him by his elbow, Galahad whirled the man around and kissed him fiercely. “You really are a lovely man.”

          “Did you think I was a shit?”

          “There’s always a chance.” Galahad nosed Tristan’s chin up, pressing sucking kisses to his neck. When he got to the collar of Tristan’s shirt, he bit it. “Take this off.”

          Tristan stepped back, hands gripping the collar and yanking it over his head. Galahad licked his lips as each inch of new flesh was revealed. The man’s stomach was as soft as Galahad had imagined—flexing muscles hidden beneath a soft layer of flesh. He could imagine lazy days in bed, draped across that expanse, stealing slow kisses and lolling about in rumpled sheets. Tristan’s chest was as well formed as it looked, flexing pectorals covered in a thatch of curling chest hair. Little patches were starting to run silver and Galahad thought of learning them all with tongue and teeth.

          Galahad started when Tristan tossed his shirt at him. Snatching it off his head, Galahad could only smile when he saw Tristan’s grin. “You plan on looking at me all evening or did you want your lesson?”

          “My-” Galahad looked at the table and blinked. Pots of paint were laying open on the table. “You…there are actually finger paints?”

          “Course there are. What did you think I meant when I asked you over, Pup?” Tristan’s grin grew. “I’d take off your shirt first, wouldn’t want to get anything on it.”

          Galahad raised an eyebrow, but peeled out of his shirt. He felt a self-satisfied surge of warmth when he heard Tristan’s breath catch. He settled on a chair by the table crossing his legs. “Alright professor, what’s the first lesson?”

          Tristan dipped his hand in a pot of red paint before settling on his knees before Galahad. “First, you pick a colour, then you have to choose a good canvas.”

          “Ah, should I jot that down?”

          Tristan stroked two paint covered fingers across Galahad’s chest. The younger man shivered at the sensation. Drawing his fingers down, Tristan rubbed firmly at one of Galahad’s nipples before moving slowly to his stomach, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake. “I think you’ll remember.”

          “Fuck,” Galahad whispered, letting Tristan settle between his legs. His hands were everywhere, tracing lines up Galahad’s torso and mapping every divot and freckle as they moved. When Tristan bent to kiss his knee, Galahad jerked, wrapping his legs around the older man’s strong torso.

          “Come on, Pup,” Tristan drew his lips along the inside of Galahad’s thigh. “Choose a colour.”

          With shaking fingers, Galahad dipped both hands into a pot of blue paint and brought them to his face. He traced lines across his cheeks, blushing faintly when Tristan smiled up at him.

          “We… _uh_ …we match.” Galahad tilted his head, studying the lines on Tristan’s face. He drew a finger along the man’s right cheek, leaving a blue mark. “What are they anyway?”

          Tristan’s expression turned stoic. “It’s a sacred mark of my people. Only warriors are allowed to have them on their body when they’re considered worthy. On anyone else, it’s a sign of grave disrespect.”

          “Oh hell,” Galahad unhooked his legs from around Tristan and moved to swipe at his face. Strong hands caught his wrists before he could. When he looked down, Tristan was laughing, offering him a toothy smile.

          “I got drunk one night in Oaxaca,” Tristan chuckled. “I was 19 and when I woke up my face was swollen. Fuck if I know what they mean.”

          “You absolute shit,” Galahad yanked a hand free from Tristan’s grip and smacked it on Tristan’s chest. “I thought I’d insulted your beloved grandfather or something.”

          He moved to strike again, but Tristan was faster, springing to his feet and grabbing Galahad out of the chair. He used Galahad’s surprise and the momentum he’d built to pin Galahad face first against the brick wall.

          “We teach the children not to hit, Galahad,” Tristan murmured, letting his weight fall heavy along the younger man’s back. Galahad bit his lips to keep from moaning, but he couldn’t stop the little shiver that ran down his spine. Tristan’s breath ghosted over the shell of Galahad’s ear. “Do I need to teach you how to behave?”

          “What do you suggest, professor?”

          A large hand landed firmly on Galahad’s ass, making him moan. “There’s always a good caning. That’s what they did in my day, but it’s rather frowned upon now.”

          Galahad pushed his ass back into Tristan’s grip. He wouldn’t mind a good spanking. Tristan moved, grabbing Galahad’s wrists and placing them on the wall by his head.

          “Of course, there’s always the tried and tested method: A time out.” Tristan pressed Galahad’s wrists to the brick before releasing him. “You stay where I put you, Pup, and think about what you’ve done.”

          Galahad nodded, pressing his heated face into the cool brick. There was a rustle, and then Tristan dropped to his knees. Galahad braced as he felt sure fingers running up the back of his thighs. A large hand captured his kilt, pulling it up, and Galahad whimpered softly.

          “Hmmmm,” Tristan’s fingers toyed with the rim of Galahad’s pants. “We should really do something about this naughty kilt too, shouldn’t we?”

          “Yeah,” Galahad panted, arching his back to present his ass more fully. “Y-you should teach it a lesson.”

          Tristan’s hand slipped around to Galahad’s front, palming his erection for a moment before easing his underwear down. He helped Galahad step out of them before hearing a soft thud as Tristan cast them aside. Tucking the hem of Galahad’s kilt into the waistband, Tristan freed both his hands to knead at the firm globes of Galahad’s ass.

          Galahad reached back, grabbing for Tristan’s tangle of hair to guide him where he desperately wanted him. Tristan dodged, slapping Galahad’s ass firmly. “Keep your hands where I put them, pup, or this ends now.”

          “If I don’t, will you take me over your knee?” Galahad put his hands back on the brick, smearing paint along the wall.

          “I’ll take you every way you can think of, boy.” Galahad could feel Tristan’s breath across his backside, he made a soft pleading noise. The firm hands were back, parting the globes of Galahad’s ass and exposing him to the open air. “Now, be a good lad and stay put.”

          Galahad felt the soft brush of Tristan’s beard across his cheeks, the sensation making him tremble. He keened when Tristan’s grip shifted, and a soft tongue began to lap at his hole. Galahad ground his forehead against the brick as Tristan’s tongue gently prodded him open, each flick and lap against him pulling guttural noises from the younger man’s throat.

          Tristan hummed, pulling back to nip lightly at the join between Galahad’s ass and thigh, eliciting another high pitched keen. When he resumed his attention, Galahad pushed back into Tristan’s mouth, trying desperately to get the older man’s tongue where he wanted it. He felt Tristan’s laugh against his skin and flushed hot. “Such an eager boy, you want more?”

          “Please,” Galahad no longer cared if he was begging. He felt himself being parted again and the soft wet touch of a tongue flicking over him – once, twice, before plunging inside. “G- _guh_ …gods please!”

          Tristan’s tongue squirmed inside him, deep and utterly filthy. Galahad’s body felt electric as he registered each obscenely wet sucking sound. His skin felt charged, every teasing suck to his rim and languid thrust of Tristan’s tongue seemed to reverberate through his body. Tristan’s hands left his ass, sliding around to gently tug at Galahad’s balls and tease at the base of his cock. Every ounce of blood in Galahad pooled low, his stomach stretching tight as unbearable pressure built within him.

          His hands were clawing at the brick, and Galahad could feel his body coiling, preparing to surge. He slapped a hand on the wall. “S-stop!”

          Tristan’s hands and mouth were gone, making Galahad whine. A steady hand stroked softly along Galahad’s thigh, brushing at the goose bumps there and soothing the trembling muscles. “Too much?”

          Galahad nodded, his chest heaving. Those soft hands ran up his back, rubbing at the shoulders. Little pecking kisses dotted the muscles along Galahad’s spine as Tristan made soft soothing noises. “You did so well with your timeout, pup. I think a treat’s in order.”

          Tristan’s hand left his body and Galahad remained on the wall, trying to gather himself enough to move. Before he could, Tristan’s hands returned, scooping Galahad into his arms and carrying him to the bed.

          “You don’t…carry me,” Galahad still felt a bit dazed, but did his best to frown. Tristan laid him on the mattress, gently unfastening Galahad’s kilt and slipping it from his hips. He smiled when Galahad craned up for a kiss, in spite of his pout.

          “Alright, you can carry me next time.”

          “Don’t think I won’t- Where are you going?” Galahad struggled to sit up as he watched Tristan walk back to the table. Tristan returned holding up the pot of blue paint and smiling.

          “I want to see your marks on me,” He whispered, handing over the paint. Galahad blinked, his heart squeezing when he looked at the shy smile on Tristan’s face. He shook his head—what kind of absolute idiot falls in love after one night?

          “Where’s your paint?”

          Tristan stood, slipping out of his jeans and boxers. His cock hung thick and heavy along his left thigh, Galahad wanted to test the weight of it on his tongue. Tristan’s legs were lithe, like a dancer’s, and Galahad wondered if they would be as gloriously flexible. He tracked Tristan’s movements as he walked around the bed, digging into his night stand for lube and some condoms.

          “I thought I’d use a different medium,” Tristan said, falling on the bed beside Galahad. Wrapping his fingers around Galahad’s cock, Tristan stroked him gently. “Unless you wanted to-”

          “You want me to?”

          “As long as I’m near you, I don’t much care where my cock goes.”

          Galahad laughed, ducking his head to bury in Tristan’s chest. “Gods, I should leave on principle after that line.”

          Tristan chuckled, releasing Galahad’s cock to draw the man closer, pressing every inch of flesh against his own. He waited until Galahad nuzzled up, lips searching for a kiss. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m afraid I’d do just about anything you asked at this point.”        

          Galahad licked at Tristan’s mouth before moving to whisper in his ear. “I want you to fuck me senseless tonight, we’ll see about taking care of you in the morning.”        

          “I’m going to hold you to that,” Tristan growled, uncapping the lube.

          Tristan took his time, stroking Galahad’s cock a few times before dipping his hand lower and rubbing slick fingers over the younger man’s entrance. Galahad’s breath quivered as he rocked into the sensation. Tristan’s other hand slipped beneath Galahad’s head, angling him up for deep, slow kisses as he pressed the first finger in.

          Thanks to Tristan’s tongue, the slide was easier than it should have been, and Galahad groaned at the sensation. Galahad let himself be held as Tristan fucked him softly, massaging and teasing as he was kissed. Tristan pulled away to add more lube before enveloping Galahad in his arms again. This time Tristan rolled until he was straddling Galahad’s thigh, gently rocking his cock against the younger man’s hip as he added a second finger.

          The stretch burned a little this time and Galahad hissed as he pushed into it. He rolled his hips to meet Tristan’s thrusts making little needy noises as he felt those strong fingers flex and rub inside him. When Tristan grazed Galahad’s prostate, he felt himself clench tight, shivering as his dick jerked.

          “Do-don’t.”

          “Still too sensitive?” Tristan’s fingers flexed again, barely grazing the sensitive spot. It was enough to make Galahad thrash and shove himself down on the man’s fingers.

          “Stop dawdling and get to it will you?” Galahad snapped. He tried to be put out by it, but it was difficult in the face of Tristan’s smile.

          “Bossy little Pup, aren’t we?” Tristan added a third finger and every retort Galahad could conjure fell from his head as he moaned. “That’s it, push down, beautiful boy, show me how much you want it.”

          Galahad made a noise that might have been words, but he didn’t worry about it. Sinking his fingers into Tristan’s hair he yanked that mouth back to his. He was positively writhing on Tristan’s hand now, and had no control of his mouth anymore, half formed fantasies and request fell from his lips between kisses.

          When Tristan pulled his hand away, Galahad scrabbled to get on his hands and knees. His limbs were shaking with effort as he thought about being taken hard and fucked into the mattress. But Tristan moved up the bed, stacking pillows and leaning against them as opened the condom and rolled it down his shaft. The older man held out a hand as the other slicked his cock.

          “Come here.” Galahad crawled up the bed on unsteady limbs. “I want you to ride me, Pup, do you want to?”

          “Yeah,” Galahad let Tristan help him onto his lap. The older man searched for something beside the bed before smiling and holding up the pot of blue finger paint. He unscrewed the cap and poured some on Galahad’s waiting hands. Pitching forward Galahad rested both paint smeared hands on Tristan’s shoulders, bracing himself as Tristan guided him back onto his cock.

          It had been so fucking long, and Galahad had nearly forgotten how good it felt to be stretched open and pulled down. Tristan raised his knees, digging his heels into the mattress, making a space for Galahad to lean back as he took him. Galahad’s mouth fell open as Tristan bottomed out and stilled, letting Galahad find his balance. Rolling his hips once, Galahad opened his eyes to smile at Tristan softly before clenching for all he was worth. He grinned as Tristan’s eyes rolled back and strong fingers found his hips.

          “Was that good?” Galahad whispered. Blue hands trailed down Tristan’s chest, rubbing at his nipples before scratching their way back up to his shoulders. Galahad rose slightly, clenching again as he moved. Tristan’s fingers twitched, digging hard into the knobs of Galahad’s hips. Taking the older man’s face in his hands, Galahad stroked his high cheeks softly, smearing blue across them, marking them as his own. He kissed Tristan softly, a tease of a touch that had him chasing Galahad’s lips. “I want to bounce on this beautiful cock until I’m screaming. Think you can make me?”

          Tristan’s eyes opened, sharp and challenging as they found Galahad’s. He snarled slightly, upper lip curling as he tightened his grip on Galahad’s hips and thrust hard. Galahad saw stars, gasping as he scrabbled for purchase. Tristan kept pistoning up, teeth bared as he fucked Galahad in earnest.

          Digging into Tristan’s hair, Galahad pulled his head back, angling for a kiss. Tristan dodged him, instead sitting up straighter until Galahad was pressed along his torso. Now each thrust rubbed Galahad’s cock against Trista’s soft furry stomach. The sensation made Galahad claw at Tristan’s back.

          “That’s it, mark me,” Tristan grunted, thrusting harder. Galahad was whimpering as each rocking shove teased at his prostate. “Next time we do this, I’m going to take you in that fucking kilt.”

          “Yes,” Galahad hissed, feeling his body growing taut.

          “Might just press you against a wall,” Tristan panted. “Flip up that little skirt and sink right in.”

          “ _Fuck_ , please,” Galahad could feel it building low in his groin, his hands flexed as he rolled his hips. “Will you let me take you? In that pteruges?”

          Tristan groaned, teeth catching the lobe of Galahad’s ear. “Why do you think I wore it, Pup?”

          Galahad could see it so clearly: Pressing Tristan against the brick wall in this flat, rucking up the strips of leather and pushing into that tight ass. The image was too much, and he shuddered, coming with a cry that was half Tristan’s name, half plea.

          Tristan snarled as Galahad spasmed around his cock, thrusting a few more times before he groaned and shook between Galahad’s thighs.

          For a moment, both stilled together, foreheads pressed close and sharing ragged breaths between them. When Galahad was able to control his fingers again, he brought up a hand to trace along the blue planes of Tristan’s face. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you, you know.”

          Tristan smiled, his honeyed eyes soft and half lidded. “Not a dog, then?”

          “Well, I’m not prepared to go that far…”

          Galahad gleefully screamed as Tristan snarled and wrestled him to the sheets.

* * *

 

           Galahad woke up to sunlight dappling his skin. When he stretched, his skin felt stiff and he smiled when he looked down to find red streaks of dried paint cracking along his chest with his movements. He yawned and sat up, but froze when his eyes caught the wall beside the bed.

          A halo of blue streaks and smudged handprints were stamped onto the wall. Galahad felt himself flush as Tristan stirred beside him, sitting up to press kisses onto Galahad’s shoulders.

          “Please tell me you can wash that off your wall,” Galahad nodded toward the paint.

          Tristan stretched lazily before propping his head on Galahad’s shoulder, following his gaze. “I may just put a frame around it.”

          Galahad laughed, shoving at Tristan, who caught his arms and pinned him to the sheets. “No shoving, that’s how we got into this mess in the first place if you remember.”

          “Can you get that off, seriously?”

          Tristan dipped down, stealing a kiss. “It’s finger paint, pup. It washes right off. It’s non-toxic, too.”

          Galahad looked down, noting for the first time the smear of blue, red, and purple paint running the length of their bodies. He laughed, letting Tristan take his weight as he leaned back. “Shower?”

          Tristan smiled.

* * *

 

           In truth, Tristan’s bathroom needed some work. The fixtures were dated and the tiles were an appalling beige colour, he would need to tear them out and perhaps get a plumber to help him figure out how to install a rainfall shower head. The number one priority, however was getting a bath installed. Galahad had plans for long relaxing baths spent combing tangles and glitter out of Tristan’s hair with his fingers.

          Galahad didn’t let himself worry too much about the fact that he already had renovation plans for an flat he didn’t live in. He couldn’t when he had Tristan pressed up against that ugly beige tiles moaning as Galahad fucked him.

          He bit at Tristan’s back, just hard enough to leave little red claiming marks along the bigger man’s shoulders as he thrust. Tristan cried with each one, clenching and rolling his hips for more. Galahad tried to kiss him again, but the awkward angle of that ancient shower head meant they’d both drown before their lips met.

          “I know, darling,” Galahad whispered into Tristan’s shoulder, grunting as he thrust harder. Water sluiced over his ears and cascaded down Tristan’s back, splashing around where they were joined. “We get out of here and I’ll kiss you blind.”

          Tristan grunted, pushing back harder, back rolling as he fucked himself on Galahad’s cock. Meeting each thrust, Galahad leaned forward, taking Tristan’s cock in hand.

          “Now who’s an eager boy?” He whispered as Tristan made small little noises. “Come on darling, for me?”

          Tristan shuddered and made a guttural sound as he came, shaking between Galahad’s hips and hands. Galahad followed shortly after, letting his head fall to Tristan’s back as his knees shook. With a small noise of complaint, Galahad let himself slip from Tristan’s body, tying off the condom and tossing it in the waste bin.

          “Should we actually clean up now-” Galahad made a surprise noise as Tristan grabbed him and pressed him against the far wall of the shower, kissing the life out of him. Though frantic at first, Tristan gentled the kisses once Galahad began stroking his neck and back. When they pulled apart, the bigger man was panting, eyes screwed shut. Galahad drew a soft finger over his cheek, knowing in that moment that he was stupidly in love. He wondered how long it would take for him to say it, he probably wouldn’t last the week if he had to face those lovely eyes every day.

          “Let’s wash off,” Tristan’s voice was a low rumble as he dipped to kiss along Galahad’s neck. “I was promised a proper kissing when we finished.”

          “THAT wasn’t a proper kissing?”

          Tristan shook his head. “I can still see.”

          Galahad laughed, pushing at Tristan until he was standing under the spray of the ancient shower. He grabbed the shampoo, he had hair to clean.

* * *

 

          “You blind yet? I’ve got to go soon.” Galahad squirmed on Tristan’s lap. They had dressed and settled in the loft space above Tristan’s bed. Galahad was thrilled to note that the large old recliner easily fit them both and immediately set about kissing Tristan until neither could breathe.

          They had wasted most of the afternoon in that chair and Galahad could only hope he could waste a lifetime’s more.

          “I can still see,” Tristan squinted at him. “You might have to come back.”

          Galahad smiled lightly biting at the grey streak in Tristan’s chin. “I would have come back either way, you fool.”

          “Would you?”

          “You’ll be sick of me soon enough.”

          Tristan traced a soft finger along Galahad’s chin. “I’d like to test that theory. See me tonight?”

          “Yes.”

          “Tomorrow night?”

          “Of course.”

          “Move in.”

          Galahad paused, biting back the _yes_ ringing through his mind. “I think we should wait on that.”

          Tristan glanced down, colour rising on his tattooed cheeks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t hav-”

          “Ask me again in a week.” Galahad began finger combing Tristan’s hair, smiling when the man pressed into his hands. “Oh hell, ask me tomorrow.”

          “I will,” Tristan promised, relaxing back into Galahad’s hands. “I think you like my hair more than me, pup.”

          “I want to plait it, put glitter in it and hair bands too.”

          Tristan smiled, stretching like a cat into the caresses. “What will the girls do?”

          “Hmmmm,” Galahad carefully separated a small section behind Tristan’s ear, plaiting it tightly. When he brushed back the rest of Tristan’s hair, it was hidden in the tresses. “There, a secret kiss only you and I know about.”

          “Move in with me.”

          “Ask me tomorrow.”

          “I will.”

          Galahad let Tristan draw him down to rest against him, they coiled together in silence, watching the rain fall.

* * *

 

          Galahad wandered into work with a rumpled shirt and a goofy smile. Vanora clapped when she saw him. Moving closer, she plucked at a curl that was still flecked with red paint.

          “You look good in red.”

          Galahad blushed, swatting at her hand. He was about to tell her to mind her business when Bors’ laugh rang out from somewhere behind him.

          “Fuck the curls, look at his arse!”

          Galahad froze, his face instantly flaming red and his ears ringing. He turned to look over his shoulder as Vanora ran to his backside. There was one very clear red hand print smudged onto his ass as well as a few streaks from where it had been rucked up. Gods be damned, he would send Tristan to work tomorrow with handprints all over him, the bastard.

          “DID YOU PAINT WITH TRISTAN?” Six was dancing around Galahad’s feet. “Did he paint you a bird? He makes great birds!”

          Bors was still laughing when he picked Six up, kissing her cheek. “I think he gave old Gal here a one-eyed snake.”

          “Can I see?”

          “Six darling, duck please.” Six bent down and Vanora smacked Bors on the head.

          “OY, she doesn’t know what it means!”

          “What _what_ means, Daddy?”

          Galahad was just about to melt into the floor when Tristan burst through the door clutching a coat. He looked at Galahad, shrugging helplessly. “It occurred to me that you might not have time to go home first.”

          He offered up the now useless long coat.

          “Did it just?” Galahad snatched it and wrapped it around himself. It smelled strongly of Tristan and it was annoying how much that scent soothed him. “I’m not moving in with you for a month at least.”

          Tristan smiled, reaching out to adjust lapels that were laying just fine along Galahad’s chest. “If you moved in, I would have been able to bring you a proper change instead of just a coat.”

          “Hi Tristan! Are you moving in with Galahad?” Six waved from her father’s shoulders.

          “I hope so, Freckles.”

          “No.” Galahad said sternly. He let Tristan’s face fall for just a moment, it seemed only fair. “I’m moving in with him, his flat’s better. But we really do need to do something about your bathro-”

          Tristan was kissing him again and Galahad found he didn’t mind the whoops or clapping one bit.

* * *

 

**OK Can we all take a moment to flail about this GORGEOUS art by BiaOAK? Because I am SHOOK by it's beauty:**

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/ymzvXjN)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, look up Special Reconnaissance Regiment and tell me their symbol isn't PERFECT for Tristan. Like, it's just missing the damn bird.
> 
> **Next Up:**  
>  Who knows? I'm working on a Hannigram and a rare pair story simultaneously. We shall see what finishes first.  
> As always, feel free to send me prompts, I'm slow, but I try to prod through what I can!

**Author's Note:**

>  **Next Up:**  
>  Galahad enlists the kids to help him get to know Tristan better. What could possibly go wrong?


End file.
